


a place to rest my head

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Puns, Late Night Conversations, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"once the taller skeleton had left the room, sans had taken the plate and given him a generous mug of hot chocolate in exchange, with an apologetic smile on his face and a “he’s getting better. it’s a work in progress.”</p><p>or, the one where grillby has a terrible, awful crush on sans just like the rest of us</p>
            </blockquote>





	a place to rest my head

**Author's Note:**

> i was trying to write more skeleton angst bc that's all i seem to do now and i was halfway through before i realized i _can't write papyrus to save my life_
> 
> honestly, not sure how well i did with grillby either but i'm sansby trash and im a sucker for angst so here we are
> 
> (like honestly tho i never let my faves be happy and i dont know w h y)

 

 

It started, as many things do, with a sneeze.

A violent, harsh kind of sneeze. More of a cough, really.

Snowdin was not a place for a fire monster. Grillby knew that, but it was his home, he’d made a life there, with his daughter and his restaurant, carved a little place for himself in the nice town full of nice people.

He knew it was dangerous, with the frequent snowfalls, with Hotland being towns away, and definitely with these sudden flash snowstorms he really should’ve gotten used to by now.

And he was usually prepared for things like these, but he’d left his umbrella back tucked behind the bar and in the blink of an eye there was a thick blanket of snow falling all around him. And on him. He could feel each snowflake hit his skin, his head, sizzling and slowly but surely overwhelming the heat.

The snow was too thick on the ground, he couldn’t get through, could barely move, flared up as much as he could in an attempt to melt the ground around him and get loose and immediately shrinking down as much as he could because _bad idea_ , there was too much, too fast, he couldn’t end out here in the snow— he had a daughter halfway through college and a restaurant to look after this couldn’t be the end, he shook and let out a violent, harsh kind of sneeze and—

“hello?” he heard a voice, faintly, carrying through the wind, “is someone there?”

He’d tried to choke out a response, but his throat wouldn’t work. Luckily, somehow, the faint light of his flames seemed to have given the someone a signal to where he was, because a few moments later there was a figure coming into view though the haze.

Oversized sneakers, basketball shorts, a too-big hoodie, topped off with a concerned, vaguely alarmed look.

“oh my god, dude, are you okay??” his voice was young, clear, maybe late teens?

Grillby loosely recognized him as one of the skeleton brothers who lived on the edge of town. They had just… shown up one day. No one really knew where they came from, and no one really asked. This one, the small one, had ordered a burger or some fries a few times, and always sat at the bar instead of a booth, but Grillby didn’t know him very well (he wasn’t the most talkative at the best of times). Nobody knew them very well.

Again, the elemental tried to offer some kind of response, but the words just wouldn’t come out.

The skeleton trudged cautiously towards him through the snow, looking him up and down with worried eyes. Grillby imagined he must be a sight- fallen in the snow, flickering weakly, nearly burnt out.

“oh god, oh no, shit,” the skeleton (sans, maybe? he thought absently) muttered, stretching out a hand Grillby didn’t hesitate to take and pulling him to his feet, “hey, you’re gonna be fine, let’s get you somewhere warm, yeah?”

He didn’t have the strength or the will to protest, and gladly let the skeleton lead the way through the storm.

(He ended up bringing him to his house, a little two storied home with a string of lights decorating the outside of it.

sans’ (that was in fact his name, he found out) brother Papyrus had been a big ball of worry and eagerness to help. He’d been given a big plate of steaming spaghetti (??), that tasted more like cardboard than pasta- once the taller skeleton had left the room, sans had taken the plate and given him a generous mug of hot chocolate in exchange, with an apologetic smile on his face and a “he’s getting better. it’s a work in progress.”

He was honestly surprised at how kindly they treated him, how welcoming and helpful they were to a near stranger. sans, especially, held a certain wariness of the townsfolk, a slight defense that Grillby had noticed when he first walked into his restaurant (Grillby noticed things; it was part of his job, really, he knew what his customers liked and disliked, and many of them confided in him about their troubles and woes). So the genuine trust the smaller skeleton seemed to show him when he told him he was welcome to stay until the storm passed and said that ‘guests got to pick the channel’ was almost touching.

He ended up falling asleep on their little couch and staying till morning.

He couldn’t thank them enough, he said.

 _It was no problem,_ sans said back, _really.)_

(When sans started showing up more often and the infamous tab started becoming a thing, Grillby knew he’d never make him pay it. He wondered if sans knew that too.

He hoped he did.)

 

So sans started showing up more often.

He started adding things to his tab.

He started making friends with the other customers, grinning and cracking a surprising amount of jokes and one day he was sitting with his head propped on his hand with a fry in his other and made the most horrible pun Grillby had ever heard ( _you make those burgers **fast.** gettin’ pretty **fired up** , amirite?)._

There was a pause, and a muffled snort and “that was _horrible_ ,” Grillby said in his small crackling voice, and he couldn’t help it, the snort turned into a laugh, and then some more, and sans’ face _lit up,_ grinning like someone had just handed him his hopes and dreams on a silver platter.

And then he launched into a whole series of _awful_ jokes ( _didja hear about the fire in the circus? the heat was **in-tents**.) _ ( _whadda you call dangerous precipitation? a **rain** of terror!_ ) and Grillby was pretty sure he hadn’t laughed this hard in years.

And the more he laughed, the happier sans seemed to get, until he said, “is it hot in here, or is it just you?” and Grillby stopped abruptly, nearly choking on his own laughter caught halfway out of his throat.

sans blinked, face falling slightly. “get it? …cuz you’re fire?”

And of course he meant it that way. He was fire, he was literally always hot, but there was something in the way he said it that might’ve brought heat to his cheeks if he’d had any. Hell, sans was practically a kid, a few years shy of twenty, maybe, and he was obviously running out of puns, grasping at straws.

Grillby chuckled, pushing away the awkward air that had formed.

“If I’m hot, then I guess you’re pretty _cool.”_

It was sans’ turn to blink, and then he sniggered, short little breathy laughs that were very different from the amused chuckles he always gave. They sounded genuine.

“not bad,” he said, smiling, “we’ll make you a comedian yet.”

 

It took a bit of time, but they became friends. Grillby might've even gone as far as saying that sans was one of his best friends.

He bragged to him about Papyrus’ enthusiasm to join the Royal Guard. He told him stories about weird things that happen at his various jobs. When he got his PhD, he threw open the doors, breathless, like he’d just run all the way from the university, with the biggest smile on his face since that first joke exchange.

On late, quiet nights, Grillby told him about his daughter, about his daughter’s girlfriend, about his late wife, about how he was so happy Fuku was happy. How he wishes he could’ve made his wife happier.

(“i’m sure… i’m sure you made her plenty happy, grillby.” sans had looked at him, surprisingly serious, “hell, you make everyone happy. where would the dogs go on their breaks if you didn’t serve the best burgers in the underground? where else could bunny be as safe as she is here when she's drunk? who would be a better dad to your daughter than you? you make everyone here happy, buddy.” He grinned, a shy sort of thing, “especially me.”)

And it was slow going, but Grillby saw things gradually start to change.

He noticed when sans’ smiles start to loose their sly glimmer.

He noticed when sneakers were replaced with fuzzy pink slippers.

He noticed when he wore the same shirt three days in a row, and when he started taking more and more breaks from work. When he stared into space a little bit too long. When he forced out a joke and a scratchy laugh instead of answering a question.

He definitely noticed Papyrus showing up and dragging his brother out on more than one occasion, his loud nagging not quite covering up his concern.

He noticed his friend start to fall apart.

He just didn’t know what to do.

 

And one night, sans got drunk.

Really drunk.

Lightly buzzed at first, then a little tipsy, then falling alarmingly quickly into wasted territory after just a few drinks.

“it _goes right through me_ ,” he’d explained with a laugh, a bitter thing.

There was something wrong. There had been something wrong for a long time now, and it was taking its toll.

So when Grillby walked around the bar top sit on the stool next to him, put a hand on his shoulder and told him, softly, that he could talk to him if he needed to, he was honestly not surprised that it only took a bit of insisting to get him to crack.

Half of what he said wasn’t very clear, and the other half was very alarming.

He talked about how _everything is pointless, you don’t have to work so hard, buddy, really, there’s no damn point to it, everything we do is for nothing, and no remembers— it’s so damn funny! everything always goes back to the way it was, every single time, and i just- i don’t understand why it has to be me, y’know? heh, i guess you don’t know, do you- no one ever knows. i hate it… i was i could just… disappear, y’know? stop existing for a while so i didn’t have to do this anymore. i’m just- i’m just really tired grillby._

His voice kept quivering, like he was holding back something that couldn't quite be contained, like he couldn't quite _keep_ it contained, and he sounded exhausted, miserable.

And Grillby didn't know what to do.

And when sans started crying (he’d  _never_ seen him cry before, something cut into his soul at the sight and it _hurt_ ), all he could think to do was pull him into a hug, bony fingers clutching at his vest like a lifeline.

(Grillby felt something swell in his chest, an odd kind of flutter he hadn't felt since… since his wife, and he wondered vaguely what would happen if he kissed sans right now, if it would help him, if he could show him that he wasn’t alone, that it wasn’t pointless, that—

He dismissed the idea immediately. That wasn’t what sans needed right now, and there was no way he would take advantage of his friend when he was vulnerable like this.

The realization that he wanted to kiss sans, really _really_ wanted to, wasn’t as jarring as he expected it to be, though. He thought maybe he’d wanted to kiss him for a while now, just a little bit. God, he was selfish, wasn’t he.)

Later, after he’d calmed down enough to stand up straight and talk in complete sentences, Gillby called Papyrus, who showed up minutes later to take his brother home. (He didn’t even pretend to nag him this time.)

sans waved a clumsy goodbye and a small grateful ‘thank you’ and Grillby nodded.

The door shut.

The fire monster sat in the silence for a few moments, thinking about bony fingers clutching at his vest and sad tired smiles in the place of genuine laughs.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. 

He was so screwed.

 

 


End file.
